Free Bitter Inheritance by Ann Cliff

then he remembered the way she’d spoken to them, rubbed their heads … that girl loved her sheep. If she had to sell, that must mean she was in trouble. Marcus looked at the sheepthoughtfully. There were rather too many for what he had in mind, but they’d be better left together, in their group. A butcher hovered, appraising the flock. Marcus could see that he was weighing them mentally; the ewes were fat, but the lambs were too small. Marcus raised a finger, caught the seller’s eye and the sheep were his.
    Just then Marcus spotted a livestock carrier in the crowd. ‘Here Tom, take these up to Mrs Jameson’s, at Dallagill, will you? Tell her they’re mine – she’ll understand. They can go in the orchard for today.’
    ‘Aye, that I will. If I can get going right now there’ll be time for another load afore night. Give us a hand, boss.’ The sheep were decanted, slightly puzzled but not at all dismayed, into Tom’s cart and whisked off down the road.
    The day before Marcus had called on Mrs Jameson and found her in a right pickle, as she told him. ‘Grass is growing and nowt to eat it. And I’m too lame to go and buy some stock and too old to chase round ’em, in any case. But I don’t want to give up, not yet!’ Dan Jameson had been their best stockman and his wife had worked in their house when Marcus was a boy. They’d always lived in this cottage, with a few fields at the back, next to the chapel. Marcus was fond of them and had tried to look after Mrs Jameson since her husband had died.
    ‘I’ll put a few sheep on, they might be company for you,’ Marcus had promised before he left. He sometimes wished he didn’t have the gift of letting people get under his skin. It was downright uncomfortable at times. The flock would eat the grass for the widow, provided they didn’t escape. He would tell her to get a bucket of grain; that seemed to be the secret.
    When he did call to see her, Mrs Jameson was indignant. ‘This lot’s been hand reared! They’re somebody’s pets! I’ll bet they’ve all got names! Who did you steal ’em off, you wicked boy?’ She patted Lavinia lovingly. The flock had made itself at home from the start and settled down to eat the widow’s grass as a serious business. They looked as though butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.
    ‘I don’t know, Mrs J. But I’d rather like to find out.’
     
    Sally mourned the loss of her sheep, but she was too busy to sit down and cry. She trotted up to the Crown with the rent on the due day and Sol seemed rather disappointed.
    ‘Oh, so you found it in the end.’ He didn’t offer any more threats and Sally only waited for the receipt before leaving as quickly as she could.
    Mrs Scott called in to say that the advertisement for a paying guest had been placed. ‘But don’t hold your breath, it’s only a small one. It may take a while to find the right person.’
    Rather too soon for Sally, a woman drove up in a trap the week after the advert went in and asked to see ‘the rooms’. She pulled up with a flourish and threw the reins imperiously to Sally, evidently thinking she was a servant.
    ‘What rooms? Oh, you mean the guest rooms.’ Sally stammered a little and blushed. She was on her way to see Martha, but she turned back and opened the front door, which creaked a little. They didn’t use front doors very often at Thorpe.
    Sally herself thought that the old house looked pleasant if a little faded, smelling mainly of the flowers she’d picked that morning. It was always better in summer, after the traces of winter damp had gone. This was certainly the best time of year to start the new business. But she felt nervous under this woman’s hard stare. ‘We’re not ready for visitors yet, of course. In a few weeks, perhaps …’
    The woman’s stony face soured a little more. ‘Obviously not!’ she sniffed. She drew a white-gloved finger across the dressing table and examined it critically. ‘Dust! Not very